


The agent provocateur of a good dinner

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, argument, cuisine, debate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 07:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17199098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: Tumblr prompt: Mary and Jed fight about something silly and Mary is totally in the wrong.





	The agent provocateur of a good dinner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/gifts).



Dinner was served as it was every night. The same hard beef, the same mealy potatoes, a few soggy shreds of green that had once been vegetables, but that were now unidentifiable. A watery, salty broth to coat it all, of which the only redeemable quality was to soften the coarse, day-old bread into palatability.

Arriving late after a prolonged emergency surgery and scraping the last bits from the pot did nothing to improve the matter. The kitchen was deserted, with only the warmth of the stove, the smell of onions and the flickering of a lantern to keep them company.

Jedidiah Foster stared at his plate wistfully as he brought it to the table. “I know I should not complain, but the food situation is becoming quite tedious.”

Mary Phinney could only nod glumly, pushing and prodding her meal with her fork. “As famished as I am, I’d consider foregoing tonight’s meal if there was any other alternative. Even just a cup of milk would do, but the pantry is polished clean. If only this had more fresh vegetables…”

“And roasted potatoes, rather than these boiled horrors,” he added, dropping to his chair. “Oooh, or even better: mashed with butter!”

“Hmm, yes, with beef that wasn’t cooked until complete desiccation, and still tasted of meat and not salty leather,” she pursued dreamily.

“With a dash of freshly cracked pepper and a drop of fine sauce!”

“Perfect! A nice Béchamel, perhaps.”

Jed tilted his head, brusquely taken out of his appetizing reverie. “Béchamel? That would be rather bland, wouldn’t it?”

“Bland?” It was her turn to be puzzled. “No, I assure you it is quite lovely. It’s butter and egg-based, with tarragon and shallots.”

He thought this over and quickly understood. “Oh, you mean Béarnaise sauce.”

Mary shook her head. “No, I’m quite certain it’s Béchamel. Gustav was rather fond of it; I made it on special summer occasions with the herbs from our garden.”

“Visibly, German barons do not know much about French sauces,” he replied, as good-naturedly as he could muster.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Visibly, more so than Maryland surgeons.”

“A Maryland surgeon who lived in France for a few years. And dined in fine restaurants with renowned chefs. With Béarnaise sauce on the menu, not Béchamel.”

As if stung, Mary sat up straighter. “Are you calling me poor or uneducated, Doctor Foster? Or just crassly unrefined according to your lofty standards?”

He knew he should stop then and there, but he had never been one to back away from an argument he knew he was right about. “Neither. I just think I know French cuisine better than a Yankee who has never set foot outside of New England. Now, if these sauces were maple or clam-based, I’d most humbly defer to your vastly superior expertise.”

If looks could kill, Jed would be lying on the floor, torn to bits in a pool of his own blood. The way Mary’s knuckles turned as white as the lace at her collar as she clasped her fork predicted that this occurring was not outside of the realm of extreme possibilities.

Thankfully, their standoff was interrupted by Emma Green and Belinda Gibson entering the kitchen, carrying baskets of supplies. They smiled pleasantly at the unexpected diners. “Good evening,” Emma greeted them. “Are you only getting your supper now? There must not have been much left.”

“More than enough, thank you,” muttered Jed, with a glance to his untouched food.

“Perhaps you can help us,” Mary said, glad for impartial referees to finally close the debate. “Doctor Foster and I have reached a culinary stalemate. Would one of you please enlighten him as to what delicious Béchamel sauce consists of?”

“Milk that’s thickened with a roux,” Belinda answered readily. “Good base for other sauces, but pretty bland in itself, if you ask me.”

“Yes, I’ve always loved Hollandaise more myself,” chimed Emma, oblivious to Mary’s growing discomfiture and shrinking posture. “On fresh asparagus in Spring, it’s simply heavenly. Or a nice tangy Béarnaise with roast beef; oh, how I miss that!”

“Why, thank you, Belinda, Miss Green, for providing such bright enlightenment,” Jed cheerfully enthused. The women nodded and pursued their way to the pantry. 

The doctor crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, trying to keep the smirk from conquering his whole face, and looked expectantly at his companion. Across from him, Mary evaded his gaze, staring pointedly at the table, jaw set, cheeks ablaze.

“It appears you were right,” she finally conceded, every word seemingly causing her great pain.

“Honest mistake,” he replied benevolently. “I would happily lend you Carême’s _L'Art de la cuisine française au XIXe siècle_ if you wanted a refresher.”

She sighed, eyes still upon her plate. “Unless Emma and Belinda were incredibly lucky with their provisions, I think that reading can wait until we get better produce to cook decent _entrées_.”

Jed hesitated once more. “ _Entrée_ as in an appetizer? An _amuse-bouche_?”

“No, _entrée_ as in a main dish, of course. With the meat and sauces we were just discussing.”

Brows furrowed, she stared at him defiantly, her brown eyes betraying a slight uncertainty. Jed bit his lip, nodded a tight smile, and stood. Once was enough for tonight, if he wanted to remain in her good graces, and especially as he feared the scalpel might slip and stab him in during the next surgery if he dared to press on.

“I think I shall go help them unload the supplies and see if they found us that cup of milk you mentioned. It does appear to be our best alternative tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Marie-Antoine Carême, who wrote "L'Art de la cuisine française au XIXe siècle" and defined the five French "mother sauces".
> 
> Thanks to middlemarch for the prompt! I have no idea how "something silly" led to "French sauces". I also considered them debating the correct pronounciation of the word "lingerie", which, in hindsight, might have been more of a shipper crowd pleaser than this culinary diversion.
> 
> The fact that the main course is called “entrée” in America makes no bloody sense. Entrée means entrance, beginning. It’s the course before the plat principal and after the amuse-bouche / amuse-gueule / hors-d’oeuvre, because formal French cuisine is a never-ending multi-course affair. Order an entrée in the French-speaking world and you will be bitterly disappointed if you're expecting a big plate. Rant over.


End file.
